by Ron Ripley
The irony is not lost upon me, and it is not, I am certain, lost upon you.
Before we begin, I must be honest with you. When we first spoke, and you learned of my lack of knowledge of my own age, you asked me what I remembered about my childhood. I had professed a deep and profound ignorance.
It should come as no surprise to you that my statement was an unabashed lie. First, I did not know quite who you were, or whether I should trust you. Second, when I decided I could, we had already become friends and I did not wish to frighten you with my early, troubled beginnings.
My earliest memory, young Dom Gregory, is of war. The Union general Sherman had marched through the South, and war had come to the people. I was but a child, only five years of age, and I can say with honesty that I was a product of brutality and abuse. I shall not bore you with the details, but let it be sufficient for me to say that should I have ever met my natural father, I would have made him suffer exquisitely.
Now, back to my memory.
Yes, war. I remembered moving through the fields of battle. I was neither horrified nor was I attracted to what I saw. Death was merely an aspect of life I was well familiar with, and one, quite frankly, which I found boring.
You might ask why this would be frightening, and herein is where the story turns.
There were wounded upon those fields, Gregory, and at the tender age of five, I found it quite thrilling to sit and watch the light bleed from a man’s eyes as he died.
Years passed and I aged, was educated, and traveled the world in such a way as to make Oscar Wilde blush. I sampled a wide assortment of pleasures, indulged in a variety of sins, and learned ten thousand ways to inflict pain.
I was not a good man, Gregory, and I do not know if my continued discourse on my former employer is an attempt to redeem myself, or merely me seeking to avoid Hell.
It is a terrible feeling to not know what I want.
A frightening sensation, if I am to be honest, and it is one I wish I didn’t experience.
Now, since I am being honest, I have come to the main reason for this letter.
For almost a decade, I have spoken with Abbot Patrick about the Watchers. I have told him of their plans, although I do not know their end game. I have also told him of the home of Emmanuel Borgin, which will play a significant role in whatever their coup is to be.
In our many hours of pleasant conversation, I have spoken on a plethora of subjects. Never have I spoken of my business with the Watchers. There is good reason for that, Gregory. At some point, you will learn what true horror is and I would rather that I not be the one to introduce you to it.
That being said, I must speak to you of Borgin Keep.
It is a terrible place.
Your Abbot can fill you in on the details, but when I say to you that the building is a miniature version of Hell, know that I do not exaggerate. Not in the slightest way.
I have seen terrors within those walls, and I have witnessed events which drove others mad.
Recently you learned of the existence of ghosts. Spirits. Specters. Whatever you wish to call them, you know they are real. You know some of them can threaten your physical form. So too you know how to contain them. We have spoken of salt and iron.
And lead.
Let us not forget lead, young Gregory.
Not only can you use a lead box to tuck them away like an unwanted memory, but you can use lead to hide yourself as well.
Emmanuel Borgin considered me a favored guest. When we met it turned out, we had a great many similarities in taste. Quite literally. While it pains me to admit this, I feel I must. I had a longing for human flesh in my younger years, as did Emmanuel. We often dined together on the purloined meat of lesser men. I shared with him methods of harvesting he had yet to consider, and thus I was the fortunate son, if you will, of a despotic and mad king. While the throne was never to be mine, or anyone else’s for that matter, I was allowed to come and go as I wished.
Before I came here, I took advantage of my curious station.
While others were molested when they entered the Keep, I was not. Emmanuel’s ghost, and those who he had trapped there with him, left me alone. I could wander about and learn the seemingly nonsensical shifting of the building’s interior.
I digress. Your Abbot has those details as well.
I must remain focused and tell you all before I am spent.
Within the Keep, there is a room. A single, solitary room, with a small window. The window is made of leaded glass. The frame lead encased wood. Each wall has been covered with beaten lead. As has the ceiling and the floor. The door itself has a leaden shield which drops into place.
It is a safe room. Within it, you are untouchable by the dead.
I have placed items within the room for a man to use to escape from the Keep if necessary. No others know of it. I had intended to go back, at some point when my courage returned, and to destroy the building.
As you can see, my courage has yet to find its way back to me. Or perhaps I have forgotten how to find it.
Regardless of my courage, or lack thereof, the safe room is there.
You may not be the one to enter Borgin Keep, and I would be lying if I said I wished the task did fall on you, but I suspect you will know the one who will have this burden.
Whoever goes in must remember this, Emmanuel despised patterns. The only way to get to the room is to turn in the wrong direction. If your instinct tells you to go down, then find stairs leading up. Should you want to turn right, turn left. Trust no one in that house.
Not the living, should there be any, and certainly not the dead.
I will leave you with what I have become, Gregory, a cliché.
You will know when the time is right to give this, and I will say as much to you when I see you next.
You were a true friend to an old and terrible man. I cannot say how much I enjoyed our games of chess, your abysmal knowledge of Latin, and your ability to make this old cynic laugh.
Ever your friend,
Louis B. Johnson, III
Chapter 36: Another Phone Call
Harlan’s days were becoming worse instead of better, and his mood was not improving.
Ms. Coleman stood in his office, her body rigid and tense. She had delivered the bad news and it was obvious she expected his wrath to fall upon her.
Normally it would have, but a dim part of Harlan was impressed with her refusal to run from the room. Courage and intelligence seemed to be in short supply in the organization of late and he didn’t want to punish it.
“Ms. Coleman,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even and neutral.
“Sir?” she asked, the question a squeak.
“Please take the rest of the day off,” he said. “I want nothing, thank you. Only leave the office, do something pleasant, and return to work in the morning at your usual time. I will call if something changes.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, and he could hear the relief filling her words.
Her discipline continued to impress him as she walked calmly from the room, easing the door closed behind her.
A few minutes later, he heard the main door thump as she left for the day.
Harlan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his pounding headache.
He was, it seemed, suffering a setback for every bit of ground he gained. Less than an hour before, the phone had rung and Jenna had called in. She had reported the first good news he had heard in days. David had been removed by Emmanuel, which ensured there would be no loose ends in that regard. While Harlan had regretted the necessity which required the death of David, the man had chosen an unfortunate time to leave the organization.
Jenna’s good news had been quickly followed by bad news, and from her as well.
Harlan had learned of Abigail’s continued existence. Somehow, the woman hadn’t died in the Keep. From what he was told she had lost her limbs, and she was more than likely insane, but she was still alive.
/> And alive meant she was a danger.
Harlan had never had any doubts about her capabilities and her ability to survive in Borgin Keep was justification for his thoughts on her. She would die soon enough, as long as she didn’t have any other food, although David might help her in that sense.
And what if Emmanuel manages to trap her soul? Harlan wondered. What if she decides she wants to stay a little longer? How will that come back on me?
He sighed and forced himself to examine the second bit of bad news he had received.
Shane Ryan wasn’t dead.
Far from it.
The man was alive.
And the Lieutenant was dead, murdered by the ghost who had been brought in to end Shane. Which meant Harlan had lost all of his avenues of influence into Nashua, a city which still had several structures on the ley lines.
Let us not forget the loss of the ghost, he thought bitterly.
And the inability to return the possessed wire to Elmer would mean either a hefty payment in like objects to the collector, or the refusal of the man to help them again.
Harlan snarled and slapped his palms down on the desk, knocking the phone out of its cradle. He snatched it up, slammed it back into the base, and fumed as he sat in his chair.
A moment later, the phone rang and Harlan leaned forward to read the caller ID.
All he could see was a random assortment of numbers.
The phone stopped ringing at ten.
Less than a minute later, it rang again.
Once more, it was the same random numbers.
It stopped ringing at nine.
The pattern repeated itself until Harlan answered the call after it had gotten down to three rings.
“Who is this?” he yelled into the phone.
“My, you’re a little testy,” Shane Ryan said.
Harlan was shocked and couldn’t respond.
“I can hear you breathing,” Shane said, chuckling. “Which is good.”
“What do you want?” Harlan said, in perfect control of himself.
“I want to chat,” Shane said. “See how you are. Find out what the weather’s like down in Boston.”
“You could always come down,” Harlan replied. “You have the address.”
“I may,” Shane said. “Don’t count it out. When I do though, it’ll be to finish this whole show up.”
“And what if I send someone up there first?” Harlan inquired.
Shane let out a pleased laugh. “Oh, Harlan. You already have. Two observers in the house across the street. Someone to set fire to my house. The Lieutenant. And let’s not forget Lisbeth. Did you forget her, Harlan?”
“No,” Harlan growled. “I certainly did not.”
“Excellent,” Shane said. “Fantastic, really. You know, I’ve been doing a bit of research on your organization. Fascinating stuff. I’m not quite sure what your endgame is, but I’m looking forward to helping you fail.”
Harlan’s heart beat erratically in his chest. He tried to speak but his anger refused to allow words to form.
“I will find out,” Shane said and the joking, playful banter was gone from his voice. It was replied with a cold, hard edge. “I want you to understand that. You need to remember, Harlan, that I have one of your little workers with me. And they like to talk. I like to listen. You should too. Soon, and I mean very soon, you’re going to hear something you won’t like.”
Shane ended the call and Harlan held the phone to his ear until the busy signal beeped.
He returned the phone to the base and sat at the desk, his back rigid.
There were a great many places Shane could strike. Each of them would set the program back. Some more so than others.
The problem then wasn’t when Shane would attack, but where.
And if he had someone like Lisbeth trapped and questionable, then there were several structures that would prove to be more enticing targets.
The Watchers had always been a moderate-sized organization, and therefore lacked the numbers to protect all of the properties.
Harlan forced himself to stand, his legs stiff as he walked to the map on the wall which displayed all of the organization’s holdings. He stared at it for a long time, trying to decide which places to protect.
Where Shane would strike first.
After a long time, Harlan turned away from the map and returned to his desk.
He had phone calls to make and troops to assemble.
Chapter 37: Preparing for War
“So what now?” Frank asked.
Shane tapped his fingers on his pack of Lucky Strikes.
“Now,” Shane said, “I’ll have Eloise question Lisbeth again.”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“I know,” Shane replied.
“There has to be a better way,” Frank said. “We have to let her soul move on.”
Shane waited a moment before he responded.
“I agree that her soul needs to be allowed to move on,” he said, “but not yet. Not until this thing with the Watchers is done. I’ll leave word with Eloise that if something happens to me, she should let Lisbeth go.”
Frank frowned. “There’s no guarantee that she would do that.”
“You’re right,” Shane agreed. “There isn’t. Eloise can be a little difficult at times.”
Frank raised an eyebrow and Shane sighed.
“Alright,” he admitted, “she can be extremely difficult. But I can make sure she takes care of it.”
“I don’t believe it,” Frank said. “But I don’t suppose we have much of a choice at this point.”
“Not if we’re planning on coming out on top,” Shane said.
Frank gave a reluctant nod. “Alright. So we torture Lisbeth for more information about Borgin Keep.”
“Yup,” Shane said. “Then we arm ourselves as heavily as possible before we go in.”
“Why go in?” Frank asked. “We should try to burn the place down.”
Shane shook his head. “I don’t think it’ll be that easy. I think we’ll have to find Emmanuel’s bones first, then salt and burn them. Otherwise his ghost will linger on the ley lines and the Watchers will still be able to tap into his energy.”
Frank snorted, his mouth set in a grim line. “This situation is terrible.”
The front door opened and was slammed shut.
In a heartbeat, Shane and Frank were on their feet and moving towards the study door. Neither of them had a weapon. Shane pressed himself against the left wall while Frank did the same on the right. From the hallway came the sound of heels on the floor.
Whoever it was, Shane realized, didn’t care if they were heard or not.
And that bothered him.
He clenched his fists and crouched down. Shane lowered his center of gravity and tensed the muscles in his thighs.
The doorknob turned halfway and then stopped. Shane’s eyes never left it, even as it returned to its original position.
The door exploded inward, the latch tearing through the jamb and the hinges ripping out of the same.
In an awkward spin, the door arced to the floor and slammed down, bouncing twice.
Shane sprang forward but Frank’s arm caught him and pulled him back.
Marie Lafontaine stood in the doorway, glaring at him.
Shane couldn’t find any words to speak.
“Shane Ryan!” she snapped.
He shook himself out of his stunned daze and managed a weak, “What?”
“What the hell is going on and what are you planning on doing?” she demanded.
Frank answered before he could.
“Detective,” Frank said, smiling and keeping his distance. “We’re going to a place called Borgin Keep in Vermont.”
“Why?” she asked. “What are you going to do there?”
“We’ve been led to believe that there is a ghost there who has a considerable amount of strength,” Frank explained, “and that a rather disagreeable group of peopl
e are seeking to channel his energy.”
Marie looked at Shane and asked, “Does this have anything to do with Kurt?”
Shane could only nod.
“When are you two leaving?” she asked.
“We’re not sure yet,” Frank answered. “We still have some information and equipment to gather.”
“Alright,” Marie said.
She walked into the room, passing Shane to go and sit in his chair. The detective crossed one leg over the other, picked up a book from the end table, and opened it up.
“Marie,” Shane said, finding his voice.
“What?” she asked. She continued to flip through the pages, not bothering to look at him.
“Marie,” Shane said again. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Shane heard Frank sigh but he didn’t care. Marie was forcing him to retain control as she sat in his chair.
“I think I’m looking at a book, Shane,” she said.
“No,” Shane said, his voice tight and angry. “What the hell are you doing in my chair?”
“I’m waiting for you,” she replied.
“Waiting for what?!” he yelled.
Marie glanced over at him. “I’m waiting for you to get the information and your equipment together.”
“Why?” Shane asked, confused.
“Because I’m coming with you,” she answered, and she turned another page.
Chapter 38: Surprised and Shocked
Frank stood beside Shane and stared at Marie Lafontaine.
The detective continued to ignore them both, and Frank felt a sudden wave of admiration for the woman wash over him. He grinned and shook his head, a small chuckle escaping. Frank let out a laugh, and then he laughed harder as Shane shot him a disgusted look.
